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Friday, September 29, 2017

Welcome to my stop on the
Virtual Tour, presented by Reading Addiction
Virtual Book Tours, for The Knights of Boo’Garby Art Roche. Please leave a comment or question for Art to
let him know you stopped by. You may
enter his tour wide giveaway by filling out the Rafflecopter form below. Good Luck!

The Knights of Boo’Gar

By Art Roche

Date Published: April 4,
2017

Publisher: Andrews McMeel /
AMP! Kids

Genre: Middle Grade Humor (ages
7 to 12)

Princess Phlema’s pet goat
Babycakes has been kidnapped from Castle Boo’Gar, and the ransom note demands
the kingdom’s sacred Book of Loogey in exchange for the goat’s safe return.
King Mewkus summons the Knights of Boo’Gar to track down the kidnappers, but
the Knights have been on furlough for so long that only one person responds to
the call: a 13-year-old boy named Rowland.

Undaunted by the lack of
reinforcements, Rowland agrees to take on the quest, enlisting the help of his
pet turtle and his trusty steed, who happens to be an ostrich. While Rowland
treks through the Dark Woods, encountering dangerous obstacles and fearsome
creatures, Princess Phlema takes matters into her own hands.

The Knights of Boo’Gar is a
quirky adventure set in an engaging world of heroes, nose goblins, a spunky
princess, giant bats and way too many cantaloupes. Packed with full-color illustrations,
this wacky chapter book emphasizes the importance of friendship, bravery and is
a delightfully easy read for kids and grown-ups alike.

In
the castle courtyard, King Mewkus and Edwart had assembled the royal court to
receive the Knights of Boo’Gar as they marched majestically through the gates.
Brightly colored flags hung from the castle walls, and a small band of flutes
and drums played the Mewkus family overture. It was a bouncy tune called “A
Hasty Retreat.”

The
lords and ladies of the royal court had been advised of the tragic kidnapping,
so they had gathered in their most solemn attire, their puffy red faces looking
damp and concerned under a hot morning sun.

The
king had changed into his formal crown, and Princess Phlema stood tall in her
tiara, dressed in her favorite blue velvet jumper and wearing her favorite tool
belt. She was the picture of composure now, and no one would ever guess that
she’d been crying earlier. Now she stood, proud and determined.

The
two monks of the Green Order, Pik and Flik, lingered behind the king and
princess, wearing their stiff ceremonial robes. Pik nervously fingered the cuff
of his sleeve.

Edwart
the wizard stood calmly, his fingertips touching as he surveyed the festive
scene, nodding to the assembled nobility and trying to look extra magical.

King
Mewkus looked around the courtyard. It had been years since he felt so
important and in charge. Perhaps this kidnapping was just the thing he needed
to get his kingdom back on track and to start ruling like a king again—more
like his father.

He
pictured the scene to come. Perhaps five hundred knights would ride into the
courtyard and bow to him. He’d say something inspirational and the crowd would
cheer. It was going to be grand.

Perhaps
he would lead the knights into battle against the evil kidnappers and ride back
into the castle carrying Babycakes. His daughter would be so proud of him.

“A
rider approaches!” shouted a teenage girl perched high up on the castle wall.

A
ripple of movement went through the crowd as they moved toward the gate to see
the gleaming armor of the imposing champions riding under their colorful
banners. The atmosphere was charged with excitement and everyone held their
breath and waited for that moment—the moment they’d tell their grandchildren
about.

Princess
Phlema stood on tiptoes to see over the crowd. “Who is it? How many are there?
How handsome are they on a scale from one to ten?” she bobbed her head to see.
“Um, is that an ostrich?”

Sir
Rowland rode alone through the gate to the triumphant blare of the royal
trumpets. The Mewkus overture reached a thundering crescendo, which
unfortunately spooked Rowland’s timid ostrich. Tulip jumped back, throwing
Rowland into the air and landing him in a coop full of chickens.

The
royal court looked on in horror as chickens flew everywhere.

Rowland’s
ostrich squawked and then pooped right in the courtyard.

“I’m
fine. Not a problem!” shouted Sir Rowland from beneath twenty chickens. He
jumped up pulling feathers from his hair and walked over to the king. The
musicians stopped playing.

“Your
Majesty!” Sir Rowland squeaked.

He
pulled a small, tattered card out of his pocket and read aloud so that the
crowd could hear him. “I am Sir Rowland Pockmyer, son of Rufus. I have come in
answer to your call. How can the Knights of Boo’Gar assist you?”

Everyone
stood in stunned silence. Princess Phlema frowned and looked back at the gate.
King Mewkus plucked a chicken feather out of his teeth.

The
wizard Edwart spoke up first. “Uh, good Sir Knight. Shouldn’t we wait for the
other knights to show up?”

“You
gotta be kidding me!” cried Princess Phlema. She turned to look at her father.

“Good
Sir Rowland,” asked the king. “Are there not hundreds of you under my command?”

Sir
Rowland cleared his throat. “Actually—ahem—there’s a funny story behind that.
See, most of them have retired. I’m the only one left,” said Rowland
uncomfortably.

“What
about Sir Winston?” asked Edwart.

“Oh,
he started a weasel stand in Sneezix.”

“I
think I remember a Sir Justin?” asked the king.

“Yes,
unfortunately Justin quit to start a boy band,” said Rowland.

Princess
Phlema stepped forward. “How old are you, kid?”

“I
am almost fourteen, Your Ladyship.”

The
royals turned to look at each other. Edwart shrugged his shoulders.

The
princess crossed her arms and scowled. The king’s dreams of leading a brave
army evaporated before his eyes as he looked Rowland up and down.

King
Mewkus thought to himself, “Has my kingdom finally come to this? A
thirteen-year-old ragamuffin is my only knight?”

The
king sighed. “Well, perhaps I should bring you up to speed on the situation
then,” he said with solemn emphasis. “You see, there’s been a kidnapping.”

“A
what?” said Sir Rowland.

“A
kidnapping,” said the king. “One of our royal goats has been taken.”

“And
you think bees are responsible?”

“Bees?
No, no—a person took the goat. It’s a kidnapping,” said the king with
irritation. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Oh
. . . I see, well,” said Rowland slowly. “We mostly deal with bees. At least,
that’s what I was trained for.”

“You
mean all you do is practice battling bees all day?” asked the wizard.

Rowland
continued with confidence. “Yes, it made sense since that’s what we were asked
to do last time. We developed a number of very effective . . .”

“Look,
this doesn’t have anything to do with bees, you silly child!” interrupted
Princess Phlema.

“My
goat has been taken and we need you to go get it back,” cried the princess. “And
kick someone’s behind. You guys are supposed to be so terrifying and
efficient.”

“Your
Highness,” called Pik the monk. “This young boy can’t possibly hope to rescue a
goat from dangerous captors all by himself.”

“I
was actually going to say the same thing,” said Rowland. “I have no weapons.
Only my bee-handling equipment,” he continued. “Perhaps I could use one of my
nets to . . .”

“Will
you drop the bee thing!” shouted Phlema. “There are no bees!”

The
king tried to diffuse the situation. “Look, everyone calm down, OK? Can you at
least look into this kidnapping for us? We’d really appreciate it.”

Suddenly,
the wizard turned around and thoughtfully walked back toward the castle door.
The king called out to him.

“Where
are you going, Edwart?” he asked.

“I
have an idea,” said Edwart. “I’ll be right back.”

The
king turned back to Rowland. “We received this note. We need you to venture
into the forest and track down these kidnappers. Can you at least try?” He
handed the note to Rowland.

Sir
Rowland looked at the note, then at Princess Phlema. Her lip trembled with
emotion again. She feared she would never see her lovely Babycakes ever again.
It was all too much.

Sir
Rowland felt a surge of bravery. “I will do my best, Your Majesty. It will be
my honor to track down these bees . . . uh . . . I mean these kidnappers.”

He
paused in thought. “Are they called kidnappers because baby goats are called
kids?”

The
king looked at him like he was crazy. “No! They are called kidnappers because
they abducted someone against their will. Look, are you sure you’re up for
this?”

Some
of the nobles in the crowd exchanged concerned glances.

“Ah,
of course. Yes, Your Majesty. This will be a piece of cake. Yes,” stammered
Rowland.

The
wizard returned to the group carrying a long object covered in fine green
velvet. He stopped in front of Sir Rowland and, with great ceremony, unwrapped
the object.

“Good
Sir Rowland,” intoned Edwart. “May I present to you your weapon. Passed down
through generations of wizards. Enchanted by the elves of Highmark, and blessed
by the friars of Vallejo. I present to you the Staff of Slumber.”

The
crowd of lords and ladies recoiled with a gasp.

“Jiminy
jaguars,” whispered Princess Phlema.

The
wizard held a long, gnarled wooden shaft out to Rowland. Rowland took the staff
and looked at it. The wood had a blue-green tint to it. It was carved from top
to bottom with ancient symbols, and it felt very heavy and well balanced in his
hands. Rowland thought he felt a tingle run through his fingers.

“This
will make a fine weapon. Thank you, wizard.”

“Use
it wisely, good knight,” said Edwart. “For the Staff of Slumber has great
power. All who are touched by its magic will fall into a deep, dreamless
sleep.”

“Cool,”
said Sir Rowland. He held the staff in both hands, making swiping gestures
right and left to get the feel of it.

The
princess thought he looked rather knightly after all.

With
this, the crowd of lords and ladies erupted in a loud cheer.

“Hooray!”
said the crowd.

The
band struck up the Mewkus overture again. Three maidens came out of the crowd
and threw rose petals on Rowland, and the king and his court clapped
enthusiastically.

“Well
then,” smiled the king. “It looks like we have our champion after all. Good
luck, Sir Rowland!”

Tulip
was led into the center of the courtyard wearing a finely crafted new saddle.
It was packed with a mountain of fresh supplies. Rowland took his new weapon
and climbed up onto the saddle. He looked down at the stable boy holding the
reins.

“Uh,
sorry about the mess,” said Sir Rowland.

Everyone
glanced down at the “deposit” that Tulip had left on the ground. The lords and
ladies held lace hankies to their nose. Tulip blushed a deep red.

The monks, Pik and Flik, approached Rowland
and called up to him.

“Start
your search in the Dark Woods.”

“I
will do as you say,” Rowland replied. He gave the princess a self-assured look
and raised one eyebrow for effect. The princess looked at him and shrugged.

With
that, Sir Rowland turned Tulip around and headed out the gates of Castle
Boo’Gar to the cheers of a grateful crowd. The band played joyously, and Tulip
walked with extra snap in her stride as they marched off into their first great
adventure.

“Yo!
Sir Rowland!” cried Princess Phlema. “Bring me back my goat!”

The
princess then tossed him a single white rose. It floated through the air to the
brave knight, rolling against a cruel blue sky. Time seemed to slow down as
Rowland reached . . . out . . . to . . . grab . . . it . . . and . . . he
totally missed.

There
was an audible groan of disappointment from the crowd, as the rose landed in
the mud in front of the gate. Rowland chose not to see this as a bad omen and
waved enthusiastically to the crowd.

King
Mewkus took a step closer to his trusted wizard. “We are in deep doo-doo,”
muttered the king.

About the Author

Art
Roche
is a cartoonist and three-time author, previously published by Sterling Publishing.
He is currently the content director for the Charles M. Schulz studio in Santa
Rosa, California. Before that, Art worked in video games and was a creative
director at Cartoon Network.

Welcome to my stop n the
Virtual Tour, presented by Reading
Addiction Book Tours, for I’m With You by Allie Frost. Please leave a
comment or question for Allie to let her know you stopped by.

I’m With You

By Allie Frost

Publisher: Dragon Tree
Books

Date Published: 9/26/16
(Print) 10/18/16 (eBook)

Genre: Teen and Young Adult

When fifteen-year-old Ciarán
Morrigan eavesdrops on a conversation between his father and two mysterious
strangers, his life—and the life of his little sister, Remiel—is changed
forever. After their father makes a startling decision, the Morrigan siblings
are forced to flee the only life they've ever known and embark on a dangerous
adventure across the nation of Empirya.

With the enlisted help of a
disinherited vagabond, a cynical violinist, a fire-juggler with a fierce temper,
an aspiring mechanic, and a cheerful librarian, Ciarán and Remiel must fight to
escape the clutches of lethal pursuers. Their journey carries them through
smog-filled cities, dark forests, humble towns, and perilous mountains, but
will Remiel's dark secret and ghosts from the past prevent the Morrigan
children from finding a place they can truly call home?

Winner – Indie Genius Award from Dragon Tree Books

Winner – Literary Titan Book Award (Gold) June 2017

EXCERPT

The man in the chair fidgeted. I still
couldn’t see his face, but his voice was deep and rich. “You mean to tell me
that your twelve-year-old daughter is responsible for the death of your wife?
Forgive me, Ernest, but this sounds a little… far-fetched.”

My father ran a hand through his tangled,
graying hair. “I assure you, Maverick, Dahlia…” He looked at them in turn.
“This is no deception. I curse the day that child was born!”

“Ernest,” the woman—Dahlia—said, “I know the
papers didn’t go into detail about your wife’s death, but I find it hard to
believe that your daughter—”

“She is at fault!” Father insisted. “My wife
was not the first victim. There have been others. That demon must be stopped
before she kills anyone else!”

Others. I knew what Father meant, but none
of it had been Remiel’s fault.

The man in the chair chuckled. “I must say,
Ernest, from what I’ve seen in pictures, the girl greatly resembles—”

“I know!” Father slammed a fist on his desk.
“I know what she looks like! But she deserves this, for killing my wife! For
killing her own mother!”

Anger stewed in my chest. I wanted to storm
into the room and defend my little sister, but the next snippet of conversation
rooted my feet to the carpet.

“And your son?” the man asked. “What has he
to do with this?”

Father buried his face in his hands, and his
voice was muffled by his fingers.

“I don’t want Ciarán involved.”

His words provided no consolation. If Father
wished harm on Remiel, he was condemning me along with her.

“This is an unusual proposition, Ernest,”
Dahlia purred, “but for the right price, I’m sure we can arrange something. I
have the perfect associate in mind to give the job to. She specializes in quieter
methods of her trade.” She smoothed one hand over the man’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t
you agree, darling?”

The man in the chair—Maverick—drummed his
fingers on the armrest. After an agonizing pause, he drew himself up to his
full, towering height, and I saw a man whose image I would never forget.

“You have a deal, Ernest.”

He reached a hand toward Father, who grasped
it in a desperate handshake.

“We will kill your daughter for you.”

About the Author

Allie Frost was born in 1992 and has spent most of her life in
rural Pennsylvania. She attended Western New England University and graduated
in 2013 with a degree in English Literature and Film Studies. During her
college years, she studied in England and began working on the story that would
become her debut novel, I’m With You.

When she isn’t writing, she
enjoys playing video games, reading, traveling, and going to the movies, and
she only likes dark roast coffee or very sugary lattes, but nothing in between.

Welcome to my stop n the
Virtual Tour, presented by Goddess Fish Promotoins,
for Jane Austen Lied To Me by Jeanette Watts Please leave a comment or question for
Jeanette to let her know you stopped by.
You may enter her tour wide giveaway by filling out the Rafflecopter
form below. You may follow all of the
stops on the tour by clicking on the banner above. The more stops you visit, the better your
odds of winning. Good Luck!

"Why
Dance and Romance Go Hand in Hand - How Dance Is the Way to a Person's
Heart" by Jeanette Watts

It
just so happens, I'm a dance instructor! Dance is the only thing closer to my
heart than my characters. Not counting friends and family, of course. Although
all my friends and family also dance. With me around, no one really gets a
choice in the matter...

Never
mind those awful shows on TV showing dancers being judged. They are an
abomination, a blight upon the soul! No one has the right to judge another
person's dance. Dance is movement for the pure joy of moving. It is the
interpretation of music, translating sound into motion.

It
doesn't matter whether you are grooving by yourself, or if you are in the arms
of a dance partner; while you are dancing, you are in tune with the Universe,
open to all the possibilities. You are more in tune with yourself, and if you
are couple dancing, you are also highly sensitive to the needs of your partner.
At the same time, your partner is being highly sensitive to your needs. The
only other activity two people can do with this level of care for your partner
is - sex. This is why some people will get way too jealous and don't want their
significant other dancing with anyone else.

The
problem with jealousy is, it drives people away, it doesn't bring them closer.
The absolute BEST thing you can do is insist your partner dances with other
people. They come back to you better dancers. You come back to them a better
dancer when you dance with multiple people. That's part of why there's so much
emphasis on the last dance. At the end of the dance, you get to show your
significant other what you've learned, and reassure your partner that after all
the other dancers you've spent time with, you are going home together.

Dance
and romance are very tricky. There are men and women who take dance lessons to
try and meet someone, hoping to fall in love and get in a relationship. But
social dynamics are complicated. A guy going to a dance to pick up women will
be perceived as creepy. A woman going to a dance dreaming of meeting the right
man might be seen as desperate. At the very least, she's going to be
disappointed. She's going to fall in love, alright; over and over again. But at
the end of a three minute song, her Prince Charming thanks her for the dance,
and goes to find Mrs. Charming for the last waltz.

I
know a dance teacher who cautions men against having expectations of finding a
girlfriend at a dance. He has studied this for years, and he's concluded that
women go dancing because they want to dance. It's an end, not a means. It just
so happens that, while on the dance floor, open to the possibilities of the
Universe, people frequently do fall in love, get married, and live happily ever
after.

What
college girl doesn’t dream of meeting Mr. Darcy? Lizzie was certainly no
exception. But when Darcy Fitzwilliam comes into her life, he turns out to be
every bit as aggravating as Elizabeth Bennett’s Fitzwilliam Darcy. So what’s a
modern girl to do?

Jeanette Watts’ satire pokes
loving fun at Jane and all of us who worship the characters who shall forever
be our romantic ideals.

EXCERPT

I’ve
been thinking about my conversation with Professor Jacobson over and over. The thing about formulas and people. It makes a certain kind of sense, but does it
lack a romantic sensibility?

Ha! Sense and Sensibility!

This
is the second time that Professor Jacobson has me thinking about S&S. Well,
if I’m no Lizzie Bennett, there are worse things in life than being a Marianne
Dashwood. She had youth and beauty and
high spirits. She wasn’t good at the
dating thing, either, and overlooked the better man at first. Why was that?
Did Colonel Brandon seem unromantic at first impression?

Even
though I’ve got an assignment due in Spanish, as well as the inevitable calc
and chem homework, I grabbed Sense and Sensibility to take with me to read
while I went to dinner. I wanted to read everything in the book about Colonel
Brandon.

Anne
spotted me in the dining hall while I was halfway through a tuna sandwich and a
really big pile of potato chips. “Hey,
Roomie.” She slid her cafeteria tray onto the table across from me and plopped
her book bag down beside it. “You having
a really bad day?”

“Um,
no I don’t think so, why?” I asked.

“Usually,
if you’re having a bad day, you pick up Jane Austen and read a little something
before you start to study. Since instead
of sitting here doing your homework, you’re sitting here reading Jane Austen, I
take it you had an exceptionally bad day today.”

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Jeanette Watts had been writing historic fiction when the
inspiration for Jane Austen Lied to Me hit her on the drive home from the Jane
Austen Festival. The idea was simply irresistible, and she put aside other
writing projects in order to focus on writing a satire, thinking it would be a "mental
vacation." It turned out to take every bit as much research to write a
modern story as it does to write a historical one.

She has written television
commercials, marketing newspapers, stage melodramas, four screenplays, three
novels, and a textbook on waltzing. When
she isn’t writing, she teaches social ballroom dances, refinishes various parts
of her house, and sews historical costumes and dance costumes for her Cancan
troupe.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Welcome to my stop on the
Book Blast, presented by Goddess Fish
Promotions, for Dark Genius by H. Peter Alesso. Please leave a comment or question for Peter to
let him know you stopped by. You may enter the tour wide giveaway by filling
out the Rafflecopter form below. You may
visit all of the stops on the tour by clicking on the banner above. The more stops you visit, the better your
odds of winning. Good Luck!

To the insatiably
curious—science is the greatest adventure. So, when scientists at CERN announced
the discovery of the ‘God’ particle in 2012, all the world wondered, “How did
they find it?”

A decade later, despite his
past academic failures and egregious family circumstance, Andrew Lawrence
embarked on a journey of discovery, competing against rival scientists to be
the first to solve the greatest unsolved mystery of the universe—dark
matter—and win the ultimate prize; the Nobel.

Emma Franklin, a PhD
candidate at Harvard, developed software for detecting particle reactions using
a quantum computer. To the amazement and excitement of the scientific
community, her work revealed two possible bumps in the energy curve that were
not predicted by any established theory.

At MIT, Lawrence created a
model that predicted the scattering processes of a dark matter supersymmetry
particle. Though his early work was disparaged, he improved his theory and
found that it predicted the data Emma had discovered. Their professional
collaboration deepened into a personal relationship, but when critical data was
stolen, Emma found evidence that incriminated Lawrence. Though she withheld the
impeaching material from the authorities, she felt she could no longer trust
him.

Despite their troubled
partnership, and notwithstanding the complexities of nature, Lawrence and Emma
persevered against the egos, jealousy, and envy of rivals, on their
exhilarating quest to find the ‘Holy Grail’ of physics.

Excerpt

I
thought all was lost—now I have a second chance.

With
a profound sense of relief, Andrew Lawrence slide his tablet into his shoulder
holster and walked briskly along the Boston sidewalk. His past academic
failures and egregious family circumstances were behind him. He was ready for a
fresh start.

Tall,
slender, and dark-haired, he listened to the clicking and clacking of shuffling
shoes on the pavement as students jostled alongside him. The hint of autumn
from the cool morning air brought a frenzy of activity to the sprawling
campuses of both MIT and Harvard which nurtured a flourishing rivalry among
their ambitious students. He could feel the undercurrent of tension for the
start of the fall term.

By
the time he crossed Longfellow Bridge, his adrenaline was pumping. He noticed
several eight-man sculls already rowing down the Charles River, their school
colors plainly visible. Squinting his eyes against the glare, he could make out
the MIT and Harvard boats vying for the lead, stroke by stroke.

Striding
across the rambling campus, his lips concealed a secret smile as he
contemplated a revolutionary solution to a problem he had been daydreaming
about. When he swung around a corner, he ran smack-dab into a young woman. Her
armload of books, papers, and assorted technology flew into the air and
scattered across the walkway.

“Sor
. . . sorry.”

“You
should be,” the woman said, her face screwed into a tight scowl. “Your head was
in the clouds.”

Lawrence
opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she pointed down and said, “See
what you’ve done?”

She
stooped and frantically tried to corral her absconding belongings.

“Let
me help,” said Lawrence, grasping some loose papers about to blow away.

Spying
her tablet on the grass, she exclaimed, “Oh no! All my work.”

Carefully,
she picked up the device and turned it on, tapping her fingers impatiently
until the screen lit up. She heaved a sigh and looked Lawrence directly in the
eyes. “You’re lucky. Sooo . . . lucky.”

Lawrence
mumbled another apology and helped her pick up the last few books.

As
she struggled to reorganize her treasures, Lawrence brushed a strand of hair
away from his eyes and for the first time cast an appraising glance at the young
woman.

She
was attractive.

It
wasn’t that she was a striking beauty—though her smooth white skin, olive green
eyes, and classic profile complemented the hazelnut hair that cascaded over her
shoulders. Nor was her carriage especially eye-catching, though she displayed
an appealing youthful vitality. No, what seemed most appealing was her
confident determined poise, as if she possessed a special hidden talent.

“I
can tell by your tone that you’re MIT,” she said, her eyes flashing.

Lawrence
grinned, “Physics.” As an afterthought, he asked, “What are you doing on this
campus?”

“Well,
Mr. Physics, that’s none of your concern.”

Something
in the way she said it, caused him to laugh.

They
faced each other in a stand-off for a long moment—saying nothing.

Then
the young woman heaved a sigh, gathered her possessions to her chest, and
brushed past him.

Lawrence
watched her figure disappear into the crowd.

Damn.
I didn’t get her name.

As
he turned to leave, something shiny on the ground caught his eye. It was a
flash drive.

Picking
it up, he spun around and called, “Wait!”

But
she was gone.

He
looked at the memory stick, thinking . . .

I’ll
have to crack her password, if I’m going to see her again.

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

As a scientist and author
specializing in technology innovation, H. Peter Alesso has over twenty
years research experience at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory (LLNL). As
Engineering Group Leader at LLNL he led a team of scientists and engineers in
innovative applications across a wide range of supercomputers, workstations,
and networks. He graduated from the United States Naval Academy with a B.S. and
served in the U.S. Navy on nuclear submarines before completing an M.S. and an
advanced Engineering Degree at M.I.T. He has published several software titles
and numerous scientific journal and conference articles, and he is the
author/co-author of ten books.

Welcome
to my stop on the Book Tour, presented by Silver Dagger Book
Tours, for His High-Stakes Bride by Martha Hix. Please leave a
comment or question for Martha to let her know you stopped by. You may enter her tour wide giveaway by
filling out the Rafflecopter form below. Good Luck!

HIS HIGH-STAKES BRIDE

by
Martha Hix

Texan
Brides, Book 3

Lyrical
Press

Genre:
Historical Romance

Pub Date: 8/29/2017

Win,
lose—or fall in love . . .

After
losing her mama and all she has, vagabond Patience “Patty” Sweet dreams of
reuniting with her father in the New Mexico territory. So she teams up with a
no-good gambler whose winnings enable her to get her closer to her destination.
Patty hates hanging around saloons and poker parlors, pulling dishonest deeds.
But when a game of five-card draw goes wrong in Lubbock, Texas, Patty gets
offered up as collateral—to a handsome stranger who’s about to turn the tables
. . .

Lawyer
Grant Kincaid has no intention of claiming his prize—a nearly nineteen-year-old
petite beauty with sweet eyes—who has a hold on him he can’t deny. But as he
tries to help Patty untangle herself from her shady partner, he discovers she’s
not as innocent as she seems. For starters, she’s already stolen his hardened
heart . . .

It
is a sad day in a woman’s life when she comes to grips with weakness of character.
Today might have been that way for Patience Eileen Sweet, but she couldn’t
dwell on something like that. Not this day, which had turned into a warm autumn
night in 1910. Not when she intended to escape the mess of her own making. Her
papa would have told her, “Patty Cake, proceed with caution.” He always claimed
full moons bring babies, lunatics, and any number of disasters, particularly
mine cave-ins.

Tonight
would bring change; that she knew beforehand. This night unfolded for Patty in a
saloon. By the midnight hour the floozies had served their last drinks and were
nowhere to be seen, most of the customers having cleared out. The bartender did
nothing to cover his yawns. Cigar smoke still curled toward the tin ceiling. Gaming
chips still pinged. Three gamblers refused to give in or give up.

Still
and all, it would be over soon.

Looking
up from her mending, she meant to steal a glance at her “stepbrother,” but she locked
gazes with one of the gamblers instead, and not for the first time this
evening. The three were close enough that she could get a good look—he was the
handsomest man she’d ever seen. As he had the other times, he nodded once. There
was a puzzled, curious look to his fine features, certainly not the
nasty-old-pervert leer that Dorinda had warned her to look out for.

She
did like this man’s black-haired, blue-eyed looks. He wore the garb of a West
Texan—a yoked shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons and denim
britches that hugged him just right. His boots were the same kind that cowboys
wore, only this ’poke’s weren’t scuffed or worn out. His clothes looked too
clean, his hair and chin too smooth for a man of the land. He looked rich.

Patty
moved her line of sight to her partner-in-crime, Chet Merkel. It was his turn
to deal, and she could tell he was losing at five-card stud. They couldn’t
afford for him to lose, not even for one evening, yet she prayed for his bad
luck.

She
knew what his next move would be. He’d barter her virginity. For the third
time.

Twice
before to two different men in two different towns.

Tonight
it was Scarlet Garter Jenny’s Saloon. The “winner” would be a short, dark sheriff wearing a big, thick
wedding ring. Or else the winner might be that curious fellow—the smooth-shaven
pretty boy that the drunkards, gamblers, and preening waitresses called
“counselor” and “mouthpiece,” with “Grant” or “Kincaid” thrown in from time to
time. Well, the painted ladies usually said “Sugar.”

Neither
of these men looked as gullible as the previous winners of her so-called prize.

Anyway,
Patty knew how to get out of being the night’s reward. Did she even want to? Just
looking at Grant Kincaid had her in a tizzy. One way or another, things would be
different tonight. She was cutting all ties to her double-dealing snake of a
“stepbrother,” Chet Merkel.

Definitely,
she wouldn’t be rendezvousing with Chet later.

*
* * *

Grant
Kincaid spent many nights at the poker table. As a bachelor uninterested in ice-cream
socials or musical recitals performed by the boring flowers of Lubbock society,
he lacked choices beyond reading and visiting friends or relatives. Not that he
had any local relatives, beyond the Kincaids of the High Hopes farm and ranch and
their relatives, the Craigs. He hailed from the shoals of the Tennessee River
in northwest Alabama. Besides, he enjoyed playing cards. After the last hand of
an evening, he sometimes got lucky with one of the tarts, two if he was really lucky.
He liked ’em ripe, filled out, and hotter than a thin-skinned jalapeño pepper under
the broiling Texas sun.

Tonight,
he’d been leery of the tinhorn already at the Garter when Grant arrived for Thursday
night poker. The odd-looking fellow, who’d shown up with an adolescent sister in
tow, wanted to join the game between Grant and
the general store proprietor, a local rancher, noted baker Mrs. Jewel Craig,
and Sheriff Wes Alington, who played whenever his mother went visiting in San
Angelo.

The
last seat was occupied by a cotton-gin salesman from Dallas. Since the High
Hopes Ranch showed that cotton could be successfully grown in West Texas, cotton
had become a popular way to make money in the previous decade.

Tonight,
the table cleared early with the less-than-dapper newcomer— he introduced
himself as Chet Merkel—taking several hands. Jewel the baker bowed out first.
Next went the general store man and the rancher. The cotton-gin representative took
his leave after his third bad hand. That left Alington, Grant, and the tinhorn.

Luck
started going Grant’s way, then the sheriff’s.

Always
cool and quiet at the table, the compactly built lawman wore black and a shiny
silver star, but never a sign of his wealth. His history with card playing
didn’t reach far back. After he’d married a Valkyrie from the Hill Country, he’d
taken up gaming. His mother had and would object to just about anything that might
have “enjoyment” tacked to it, but the missus advised Alington just to do what he
wanted, as long as he was smart enough to hide it from Mother Dear and it didn’t
involve cavorting with other women. That was laughable. The sheriff had eyes
only for his Lisa-Ann. Grant hoped when he found a wife that he could love her
even half as much as Alington idolized the blonde from The Divide.

“Do
you plan to answer my bet, Mr. Merkel?” Wes Alington pointed to the five green
chips he’d slid to the center of the baize-covered table.

A
bead of sweat popped on Merkel’s temple. Carelessly flicking cigar ashes on the
floor, he cast a glance at his sister who sat primly in a straight chair in the
corner, mending a garment that looked to be a shirt.

Grant
eyed the girl, as he had several times. This dimple-cheeked young lady had long
titian-hued hair held up in a big white bow. Dressed in the childish style of a
sailor, she wore leggings that covered her slender calves, and her hems were short,
befitting a little girl. He would bet every last chip in front of him that she wasn’t
a day over sixteen.

She
was too young to be candy to the senses. Most men of his age wanted to marry girls
of sixteen or seventeen—often even younger, to pluck a cherry from the tree—but
this man preferred women to girls, and he wasn’t angling for a wife.

That’s
what he liked to tell himself. In truth, he yearned to find the ideal lady to
fill the emptiness of his heart and home.

“See
your bet, Sheriff, and raise you a hundred.” The girl’s brother tossed
the required chips atop Alington’s last bet.

One
hundred? A ridiculous bet for a friendly game. It was time to end this
nonsense. Given his excellent hand, Grant figured the only call for Merkel was “quits.”
He said, “Raise you two hundred.”

It
turned out that Alington had bluffed with two jacks. He folded, saying, “Too rich
for me. And it’s past my Lisa-Ann’s tuck-in time. Don’t want to miss that.”

He
took his leave; then Merkel covered the bet.

“Raise
you five hundred,” Grant challenged, feeling confident with his four-of-a-kind and
ready for bed himself. Circuit court would convene this Saturday and he had a
pair of cases to review tomorrow.

The
stranger sucked his cigar, squinting at his challenger. He was squinty- eyed to
begin with. “Look, I’m short on chips. I can cover your bet, but I’ll have to
collect the cash from the hotel’s strongbox. Tomorrow morning.”

“That’s
not the way we play poker in Lubbock, my friend.”

“I have…collateral.”

“How
is that?”

“That
girl—I mean, lady—over there.” The way he spoke, a person would think the room
had dozens of females. “That lovely brown-eyed lady. She’s my collateral.”

“No
thanks.”

“You
don’t like women?”

“Don’t go there, my friend.”

“I’m
asking for a break, sir. I’m trying to bet a good hand. A hand so pat that I’m
willing to put up my own sister as my stake.”

“Your
sister.” Grant saw absolutely no family resemblance. Of course, this was Texas,
where families socialized in barrooms, and even brought their little children
along. “Same mother, or same father?”

“Same
mo—same father.”

That
stumble gave Merkel away as a liar. Grant saw no need to tread that avenue.

“I
don’t know where you’re from, but brothers don’t bring their sisters to places
like this, not one on one.”

“I
beg your pardon, sir. She’s my sister. My one and only. What was I to do with
her? Leave her alone in the hotel tonight?”

Grant
took another look. Earlier, he’d seen Jewel Craig buying the girl a glass of milk
that went untouched. “Don’t you think she might enjoy a root beer, or at least
a cup of water? She’s been sitting there for hours.” While you’ve swilled
several beers.

“If
Patience wants something, she’ll find a way to get it.”

If
a man said something like that in Alabama, a gentleman would jump to
the young lady’s rescue to fetch her a refreshment, if he didn’t have a servant
to do it. He would certainly want to know what part of the North the uncouth
toad hailed from. This wasn’t the Deep South. Grant asked, “Are you going to
take my raise or not?”

“Is
that so?” Grant didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the newest state,
although his friend the sheriff had mentioned Oklahoma being a place that
gushed oil.

Merkel
flicked his index finger along the top of his hand of cards, ruffling the five.
“I’ve got a hand I believe in. Allow me to stay in the game on the strength of
an evening with my sister. Just think. My sweet, untouched sister, right over
there, preparing you a tasty breakfast in the morning. Could happen. Or not.”

Grant
Kincaid took the measure of Chet Merkel, seeing a beady-eyed fellow of about
twenty. He grew a thin, kinked beard to cover a lack of chin. Pomade slicked
the brown hair over his dome. His sartorial effects had been tailored to a
larger man. Truth to tell, his observer almost felt sorry for the man. He was not
an impressive negotiator. All in all, he came across as hard luck.

Grant
eyed the girl again. The needlework now in her lap, she stared back, her eyes big
and round. She too looked desperate, with scared mixed in. He eyed Merkel again.
Did this idiot even realize what he’d suggested? “What are you doing, bringing your
sister into a saloon? She’s a child.”

Merkel
ground out his cigar. “She’s Patience Sweet, sir. In December of ’08, her pa
left for a mining job in the Territory of New Mexico. He’s not been heard from
since. He’s dead, likely. Her mother believes so. She took up with my pa. They live
as man and wife. Somewhere in Oklahoma. Exactly where, I cannot say, because
Patience and I do not know.”

Grant
noticed she dabbed her eye with a hankie. Poor innocent.

“Her
ma abandoned her. Left her with the rent overdue. When I arrived to find my
father and to collect an inheritance that should’ve been mine, what
I found was this young woman. The total of my inheritance, you might say, was the
suit on my back and the contents of Patience’s larder—a roach on a reduction diet.”

“What
kind of family does she hail from, where they abandon their own?”

What an idiotic
question. One look at Merkel answered that, really. These folks scraped by. As
a lawyer, Grant had witnessed how badly families could and did treat their own. The
mineral-rights money? Dollars to doughnuts, there wasn’t any.

Merkel was
saying, “Me, I’m headed to Juarez, then on down to Chihuahua
City. I’ve got my own mining ideas. It’s a crystal palace, that part of Mexico.
Crystals have value in numerous regards and will make me a wealthy man. As soon
as Patience got wind of my travel plans, she latched on. She hopes to connect with
her father, or news of him, in El Paso.”

“Where’s
your problem with that?”

“Not
a problem one, sir. How fortunate for you, not knowing what it’s like to be hungry.”

“You
don’t know that.”

“True.
What I do know is, the Universe favored my mother and me in the form of a dear old
gypsy who took us in when my father turned us out. Thus, I owed the universe a favor,
so I have looked after Patience Sweet. It ain’t been easy. Somebody latches on;
they have to be provided for. That one, she got a toothache. That meant a dentist.
She got her womanly, it ruint her dress. I had to buy another. She eats like a horse.
You ever fed a horse?”

This
tale of desperation had a ring of truth to it, not that cockamamie oil
nonsense.

“How long has she been…‘latched’ to you?”

“Six
months.”

Half
a year. Hundreds of nights where Merkel begrudged every spent cent. He was now at
the point to barter her services. Good God. The villain probably defiled her
himself. Grant had to know: “What exactly are you offering, should I win?”

“Whatever
you wish between now and breakfast’s end. You meet me back here at, say, ten in
the morning. Treat her kindly, sir. Leave no visible scars that will ruin her
for the Juarez market.”

Grant
looked at the girl. She was listening to the exchange, the poor thing. He turned
back to the man who would sell her, as if she were a hunk of meat. “I’m to
wager a half thousand gold-backed dollars to spend the night with a scared
little girl?”

“That’s
the size of it. And you left out ‘virgin.’”

“What does she have to say about
that?”

“She
won’t mind. She takes what comes to her.”

That
thought further turned Grant’s stomach. He leaned toward Merkel to whisper, “Is
she simpleminded?”

“Pretty
much. Has been since her baby sister died while in her care and keeping. Broke
her spirit.”

Grant
wondered if anything good had ever happened to poor little Patience Sweet.

Merkel
was saying, “I’ve offered her to you for the night, because I know in my heart
that Patience will sleep in her cozy bed at the Antlers Hotel tonight. And I’ll
have my thousand dollars when I reach the Rio Grande.”

“What
about her father?”

“If
he has my asking price, I’ll do the right thing and let him have her. I
won’t even ask for the full thousand.”

“Aren’t
you the gallant?” Grant sneered. “Tell me something. What makes you think she
won’t have something to say about this?”

Merkel
rolled his stogie from one side of his mouth to the other. He leaned his chair
back, propping himself up to grin. “That’s the beauty of it. Patience can’t
speak. She’s a mute. She does as she’s told. Except to stay away from me.”

He’s
playing me for a fool. The issue became a case of betting five hundred dollars
to save her from white slavery.

Grant
hitched a thumb toward the exit door. “Forget
it. Get the
hell out of here.”

“Wait
just a minute, sir.” Chair legs banged to the floor, sawdust swirling. “If you don’t
take my offer, that means you just want to keep all the money I’ve wagered this
evening.”

“This
is an honest game. You played. You won for a while. You started losing.” When that
didn’t seem to sink in, Grant asked, “Do you not know there are laws against
selling women’s favors?”

It
was then that he caught sight of the girl again. Standing now, the mending at
her feet, her fingers were a steeple beneath her chin, begging his help. She
mouthed the word “please.” He knew right then and there he had to win the hand.

Martha Hix grew up in Texas and didn’t mind
listening to stories about how her ancestors had been in the place for a long,
long time. Well, in Texas that just meant more than a hundred years. This weird
kid soaked up the stories and became an ardent student of family and general
history, which came in handy when she took to writing both fiction and
non-fiction. Eventually, her romance novels were translated into many foreign
languages, some of them very foreign, like Japanese, Greek, and Turkish. On the
home front, she lives in the fabulous Texas Hill Country with her husband and
their spoiled four-legged kids. Visit her on the web at marthahix.com.

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